No More Learning

If he is not capable of
getting close to his subject, we should not for that reason call his
work "literary" epic. It would put him in the class of Milton, the most
literary of all poets. We must simply call his stuff bad epic. There is
plenty of it. Southey is the great instance. Southey would decide to
write an epic about Spain, or India, or Arabia, or America. Next he
would read up, in several languages, about his proposed subject; that
would take him perhaps a year. Then he would versify as much strange
information as he could remember; that might take a few months. The
result is deadly; and because he was never anywhere near his subject. It
is for the same reason that the unspeakable labours of Blackmore, Glover
and Wilkie, and Voltaire's ridiculous _Henriade_, have gone to pile up
the rubbish-heaps of literature.

So far, supposed differences between "authentic" and "literary" epic
have resolved themselves into little more than signs of development in
epic intention; the change has not been found to produce enough artistic
difference between early and later epic to warrant anything like a
division into two distinct species. The epic, whether "literary" or
"authentic," is a single form of art; but it is a form capable of
adapting itself to the altering requirements of prevalent consciousness.
In addition, however, to differences in general conception, there are
certain mechanical differences which should be just noticed. The first
epics were intended for recitation; the literary epic is meant to be
read. It is more difficult to keep the attention of hearers than of
readers.
This in itself would be enough to rule out themes remote from
common experience, supposing any such were to suggest themselves to the
primitive epic poet. Perhaps, indeed, we should not be far wrong if we
saw a chief reason for the pressure of surrounding tradition on the
early epic in this very fact, that it is poetry meant for recitation.
Traditional matter must be glorified, since it would be easier to listen
to the re-creation of familiar stories than to quite new and unexpected
things; the listeners, we must remember, needed poetry chiefly as the
re-creation of tired hours. Traditional manner would be equally
difficult to avoid; for it is a tradition that plainly embodies the
requirements, fixed by experience, of _recited_ poetry. Those features
of it which make for tedium when it is read--repetition, stock epithets,
set phrases for given situations--are the very things best suited, with
their recurring well-known syllables, to fix the attention of listeners
more firmly, or to stir it when it drowses; at the least they provide a
sort of recognizable scaffolding for the events, and it is remarkable
how easily the progress of events may be missed when poetry is
declaimed. Indeed, if the primitive epic poet could avoid some of the
anxieties peculiar to the composition of literary epic, he had others to
make up for it. He had to study closely the delicate science of holding
auricular attention when once he had got it; and probably he would have
some difficulty in getting it at all. The really great poet challenges
it, like Homer, with some tremendous, irresistible opening; and in this
respect the magnificent prelude to _Beowulf_ may almost be put beside
Homer. But lesser poets have another way. That prolixity at the
beginning of many primitive epics, their wordy deliberation in getting
under way, is probably intentional. The _Song of Roland_, for instance,
begins with a long series of exceedingly dull stanzas; to a reader, the
preliminaries of the story seem insufferably drawn out. But by the time
the reciter had got through this unimportant dreariness, no doubt his
audience had settled down to listen. The _Chanson d'Antioche_ contains
perhaps the most illuminating admission of this difficulty. In the first
"Chant," the first section opens:[4]

Seigneurs, faites silence; et que tout bruit cesse,
Si vous voulez entendre une glorieuse chanson.
Aucun jongleur ne vous en dira une meilleure.

Then some vaguely prelusive lines.